The morning is the sharp blue-white of bright sun on snow, the air still and biting. The paladin shakes out fingers chilled from her dawn-risen sword drills, and picks up her cup of fragrant tea; in the chair next to hers, angles so their knees touch, the elf is methodically tearing hot bannocks into morsels and loading each with as much butter and berry jam as it can realistically convey to her mouth.
Many of the boarding house's other guests rise later, and many of those already at breakfast have learned that Ryssa's companion is best afforded some distance, if possible; they have a corner to themselves, until the room busies.
"Behold: our lady proprietor," Ryssa murmurs, and the elf narrows her eyes and delicately places a jam-smeared piece of bannock in her mouth, making an unimpressed noise as she watches Hibiscus-Blooms-Artfully-Arranged enter the room, and make her unhurried but conspicuously direct way toward them. She chews, leisurely, and swallows.
"If she strokes your arm again, I may be obliged to liberate her of a finger," the elf says.
"She seems to have rather more purpose than that," Ryssa says, dropping a hand to the elf's knee. "There haven't been any more wizards, beloved?" she adds, raising a brow. The elf rolls her eyes, leaning into her.
"If the White Fastness have any more here, they've escaped my notice," she says. "Trust that I consider that to mean there are no more."
"Mm," Ryssa says, eyes thoughtfully on the other, approaching, elf. "Lady proprietor; is there something we can offer our assistance with?"
"Assistance, perhaps," the hotelier says. "But alas, my two moons; I am not the one asking. I have a friend in the Stormand guard, whose work deals with the unfortuante but uninteresting deaths of foreigners of murky political connection. Your dead wizard, by apposite example; and my friend would be delighted to make your discreet acquaintance."
"Really?" Ryssa swirls her teacup. "That sound somewhat close to work, under the circumstances; something you've given me to understand that your friend's employer prefers its corpses not to cause."
"So they do," Hibiscus says softly. "And so they'd prefer to make your acquaintance quietly; not going to the exertion of official enquiries."
"Has the wizard become of interest after all?" the elf says acidly.
"In a manner of speaking," Hibiscus agrees. "There's a particular place on the mountainside, where the militia place corpses under investigation; where certain wards against animal consumption and the simple preserving cold maintain them, should they be needed for evidence or further inspection. The wizard's body went there, in the routine way of things."
Ryssa slowly puts down her teacup.
"It seems it's no longer there," Hibiscus says, touches Ryssa's shoulder lightly, and gives the elf an arch sideways look.
"Sergeant Rantifer Quill." The office is suspiciously well-appointed for the number of assurances that it exists specifically to do nothing; then again, espionage tends to be a well-funded business. The Sergeant is a trim figure with the first sprinkle of grey at their temples, eyes piercing, voice brisk. "The paladin Ryssa, I presume. And your companion, who name is elusive."
"I have none," the elf says candidly. "I am a rogue instrument of the Ríastrad, who had better use for me without."
Rantifer Quill heaves a heavy sigh. "A rogue instrument of the Ríastrad," they say, and switch their hangdog gaze back to Ryssa. "And a rogue instrument of the White Fastness—" and stops as the elf slowly and pointedly extracts the knife from their sleeve.
"Elf," Ryssa says equably.
"You may not take exception to that lie being spoken," the elf says. "Forgive me if I do; the bite of your ill-use at their hands is fresh, still."
"Be still," Ryssa tells her. "We are here to make quiet acquaintance, rather than be summoned under suspicion. Need I remind you whose fault it is there's a situation of suspicion at all?"
"The wizard," the elf says bitingly, but slides her arma insidiosa back into her sleeve.
The Sergeant glances between them. "I had the understanding," they say, "meaning no offence — that you operated in the interests of certain parties."
"We will not discuss how that cooperation was secured," Ryssa says calmly. "Only to say that the arrangement is not current."
Rantifer Quill's fingers tap on their desk, and they look for a long time at the two visitors to their office. Finally, they say, "Stormand is the world's crossroads. If you choose to go between any two areas of significance, you can choose to go by sea, or by our city. People come here to pass through, or to meet with other people, in the middle. Or overhear other people, meeting in the middle. Or drunkenly drown in our fine baths, while overhearing other people meeting in the middle. Generally, though, once they drown, they stay put."
"As I told Hibiscus-Blooms-Artfully-Arranged," Ryssa says, "I believe the White Fastness will take more of an interest than you'd think in their colleague's fate—"
"And maybe they'll send someone to demand things of me," the Sergeant interrupts, "but he's gone now. Taking the body won't hide the fact of his death; what, I find myself wondering, is someone hiding by it?" and they stare hard.
"Have you tried looking for anyone who might actually have taken it?" the elf suggests, toxin-bright and sharp. "If I intended to hide a body, I'd do it before it came to light. And Ryssa—" she pauses; looks at the paladin, to find her looking back, one eyebrow raised a little. "And you forgive them too much to do any of this," she adds, and presses her lips into a thin line.
The Sergeant sighs sharply, as if tired of them. "Which direction do your steps turn, from our little crossroad, I wonder?" they say.
"I came here because Ryssa promised me baths," the elf says scornfully. "They're by far the pinnacle of your hospitality."
"The rest of the hospitality stems from foreigners holding each under in our baths," the Sergeant observes. "If you've eyes on the road north, paladin, I have advice; the world may have taken notice of your jaunt in the Duin, but Eisgriff is not the world. They've no stomach or energy there, for throwing off the yoke. You wouldn't be the first to try them, nor the last. Better to turn yourself south and bother the Morlocks."
"I promised her baths," the paladin says politely.
Rantifer Quill shakes their head slowly. "All right," they say, heavy and disbelieving. "I'd prefer not to see your names or faces attached to any further trouble; I hope we can agree on that much."
"Sergeant," Ryssa says, inclines her head, loops her arm through the elf's, and exits.
"We—" the elf begins, when they're a little distance away, and Ryssa presses fingers to her lips and shakes her head and leads her the rest of the way to the street outside. "We have to go and see where they kept the body now, don't we."
"Now, yes," Ryssa sighs. "I really did want you just to enjoy yourself, here," and the elf grins and tucks herself under the paladin's arm.
"You didn't think I'd be satisfied with tea and baths forever," she says. "Not even with you."
